A Memory At Fault
by Dream1n9big
Summary: What do you do when your memory is your only witness and it fails to show up to court?


Words cannot express the amount of thanks I have for Karen and her editing skills, not to mention her astute ability to write beautiful gruesomeness. Also, thank you to Mary for having her soul crushed minute by minute, literally, as she watched me type this. Lastly, thanks to Marina, whose mutual late-night insanity helped come up with this madness. Please Chris, just give me the rights to these characters.

* * *

Mulder awoke to the sound of fists pounding on his apartment door. "Police! Open up!" Groggy, he sat up, pain searing through his head._ What happened last night?_ He thought as he staggered for the door. Before he could reach it, two cops burst through and tackled him, pinning his arms behind his back and slapping handcuffs on his wrists. "Fox Mulder, you are under arrest for the murder of Dana Scully. You have the right to remain sil-..." The chief officer continued as Mulder struggled under the weight of the two men, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. "...be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand?"

"What?" Mulder's head was throbbing and his vision was beginning to blur.

"Do you understand these rights as I have explained them?"

"Yes, I mean...wait. Are you saying Scully's dead?" Nausea suddenly threatened to overwhelm him. "Scully can't be dead. I just saw her a few hours ago..."

"Sir, I suggest not saying anything more until you have a lawyer present."

* * *

Mulder sits alone in a windowless room. The iciness that surrounds him has cleared his head and he waits impatiently for what comes next. He's been in plenty of rooms just like this one. He himself has interrogated numerous suspects, but this is different. He is the suspect and he hasn't done anything, at least not that he can recall. He desperately wants someone to tell him what happened. Feeling like he might burst out of his own skin, he stands and begins to pace, spinning suddenly on his heel when the door opens. Walter Skinner, assistant director of the FBI steps into the room and quietly shuts the door behind him. Mulder is relieved to see the familiar face, but cannot shake the uneasy feeling in his stomach.

"Skinner, what's going on? What happened to Scully?" The fear in his voice surprises Mulder, but he stays focused on his friend.

"Mulder, Scully was found dead from a gunshot wound to the head early this morning…" Skinner's voice trails off as Mulder backs away, shaking his head. He can feel the pressure building in his chest, suffocating him, and he collapses into the chair. "Mulder."

"No, it's not true. Scully can't be dead. No."

"Mulder, I'm sorry." Skinner's voice, the voice of reason and authority, echoed through the empty room and reverberated inside Mulder's skull.

"That's not even the worst part, though," Mulder says, lifting his head from out of his cupped hands. "The worst part is that they think I did it." The anguish was clear on his drawn face. Sleep deprivation had done him no favors, and this early morning was taking a toll on him.

"We're gonna get you out of this." Skinner's powerful intonation was back and he sounded sure of himself. "Let me find out what's going on." With three long strides he was out the door and Mulder was left alone with his thoughts, thoughts that were getting harder and harder to unscramble as he tried fiercely to remember what had happened the night before.

* * *

_Picking Scully up from her apartment. Going to check out a lead on a case. Stopping for coffee on the way to drop her back off later that night. Looking at the clock. 10:13 P.M. _Mulder was startled awake when he heard footsteps coming down the hall toward his cell. They had put him there after another hour of questioning led to no answers and more frustration. Skinner appeared before him once again looking a little less determined than before.

"Mulder, it's not good news. The casing they found is a match to your service weapon. That's some pretty hard evidence."

"Sir, I remembered something. I remember looking at the clock at 10:13 P.M. on the way back to Scully's apartment. I would have been long gone by the time they say she was murdered." The last word stuck in his throat and he looked away.

"Mulder, it's not going to matter to the D.A. With the evidence they have and the lack of a witness to your alibi, you're as good as guilty. At this point, I don't know what else I can do."

"Skinner, they have to let me out for her funeral." Mulder's eyes were pleading.

He knew with Mulder being charged and sentenced that this was highly unlikely, but he couldn't stand to be the bearer of any more bad news. "I'll see what I can do." He didn't want to get Mulder's hopes up, but Skinner could see the pain ease a little in Mulder's eyes when he said it. With a final nod and a "take it easy," Skinner left.

Mulder fell back on the cot and dropped his head into his hands. _This cannot be happening. Why can't I remember anything after coffee? _Again, he tried going over what he _could _remember to see if he had missed anything. Nothing. The same events over and over and then nothing. He was so lost in thought that he didn't hear the guard until he heard the key in the lock of his cell. "Fox Mulder, come with me."

* * *

Mulder sits in a courtroom. He hasn't been listening to much, but he tenses when he hears the judge re-enter. "You may be seated." The judge takes his seat along with them before clearing his throat. "In the case of Dana Scully, the court hereby finds the defendant, Fox Mulder...guilty of first degree murder. I hereby sentence you to…"

Mulder heard nothing but a faint ringing in his ears and the sound of his heart beating rapidly against his chest. The pounding was deafening and he wondered if those around him could hear it too. He started to stand but his head was spinning and he felt his throat start to tighten up. Any willpower he had left was lost when the bailiff took his arm to escort him out. Mulder jerked away from him and stumbled a few steps before his knees buckled under him and he fell to the floor. He felt his head hit something hard and then nothing.

* * *

"Mulder?" Skinner leaned down over the hospital bed when he heard Mulder moan.

Mulder's eyelids twitched a few times before slowly blinking in the brightness of the room. He tried to speak, but his throat was dry and his tongue felt like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth. Apparently Skinner understood because he fetched a glass from the bedside table and held it to Mulder's chapped lips.

"Take it easy," Skinner said, pushing back on Mulder's shoulders as Mulder tried to sit up. You aren't Superman. Relax."

He sat back and a searing pain shot through his head. Mulder winced in agony. It took a few minutes but finally, he was able to form words. "W-What happened?"

"Mulder, do you remember anything?"

Mulder fought the grogginess until he came up with one word. "Scully."

"What about Scully?" Skinner prodded.

Mulder shook his head, now trying to forget. "She's dead." He felt a new pain that started deep in the core of his soul and began inching its way into every part of his body. He was numb. In barely a whisper, he said, "and it's my fault." A single tear slid down his cheek as he sat there absolutely motionless.

Skinner was taken aback, not by the emotion, but by the guilt. "Mulder, it wasn't your fault. The truck pulled out in front of you. There was no way you would have had time to stop."

Mulder's face remained expressionless for an instant, and then changed to one of realization. "Wait, what?"

"The truck that pulled out in front of you. You were on a highway. At the speed you were going, you wouldn't have had time to stop even if you tried." Skinner looked at him, trying to convey to him his innocence in the situation.

"Skinner, what time did it happen?"

"They got a 911 call at 10:25 P.M. Why, Mulder?" Skinner was becoming concerned with the way Mulder was acting and wondered if the concussion did permanent damage.

"I remember."

_Picking Scully up from her apartment. Going to check out a lead on a case. Stopping for coffee on the way to drop her back off later that night. Looking at the clock. 10:13 P.M. Scully yelling 'Mulder'. A truck. The slamming of brakes. A bright flash of light. Red hair stuck to the dashboard. Blood, so much blood. But whose blood? Hers. Her blood. Her eyes. Blue, beautiful, glazed. No pulse. And then the lights came with the voices. Yelling, asking, begging. . . until the fog of things best forgotten enveloped him. Blackness. _

"Mulder?" Skinner stares at his friend, who is gazing off into space, before leaving to find a doctor.

Mulder's heart came to a screeching halt and the sound of shattered glass echoed through his soul. "I remember now," he whispers.


End file.
